


Love, Loss, and the Power of a Book

by aramisinaskirt (SilverMillennium_QueenNeptune)



Series: Musketeer March 2021 [14]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis | René d'Herblay is an Incurable Romantic, Aramis | René d'Herblay-centric, Book of Poetry, Brotherly Affection, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hopeless Romantic Aramis | René d'Herblay, Musketeer March 2021, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Sad Memories, Teasing, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 07:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30102729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverMillennium_QueenNeptune/pseuds/aramisinaskirt
Summary: As Aramis reads a book of poems, he recalls his past, his education and his lost loves. He comes to the conclusion that books can hold a certain amount of power, if we let them.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon, Isabelle | Sister Hélène/Aramis | René d'Herblay, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Musketeer March 2021 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2190600
Kudos: 4





	Love, Loss, and the Power of a Book

**Author's Note:**

  * For [privateerwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/privateerwrites/gifts).



> Getting caught up so that I can work my way back! As usual, prompt list can be found [ here](https://privateerstudies.tumblr.com/post/643477557598142464/musketeer-march</ref) Today's theme was book

It was a quiet day at the Garrison, and there was little to do. The streets of Paris were quiet; all was peaceful. Thankfully, Aramis had prepared himself for this exact circumstance. Tilting his chair back ever so slghtly to lean against the wall, he plucked a small book of poetry from his station and began flipping through the pages. It was well known among those close to him that Rene d’Herblay was an incurable romantic. Knowing this, it made sense that he would keep a book of love poems close. But this book had a special fondness in Rene’s heart.

When his father had “rescued” him from the brothel where his mother was employed, the first thing he had insisted upon was a proper education for the boy. He had been taught Latin, Spanish, and French, and could read and speak them all fluently. Rene was a clever boy; clever enough to cause a scandal by visiting the homes of his father’s close acquaintances who had daughters his age and reading poetry to them. If he were caught, which he became very good at avoiding, he was promptly chased from the grounds and deemed a scandal and a ruffian. The fact that his mother was a woman of low birth and even lower morals by the standards of the company his father kept did little to help his case.

Closing the book, he began to ruminate on his own background; the son of a nobleman and a whore, retrieved from his mother’s care for the sake of a proper education and little else. Rene had gained a sense of streetwise disdain from his mother, and a gentleman’s manners from his father. He was unable to shake his mother’s curse; reading this exact book to Isabelle was what had gotten him in trouble. Or, at least, it had started with the book. The words had stirred something in him, passions that he had not even known he was capable of at the time. When he could not control what the poetry made him feel, he had kissed Isabelle. It was an impulse; a deep desire he had not realized he was harboring. He hadn’t known what to make of it.

He supposed he could be thankful that it had been Isabelle who made a man of him and not some woman he barely knew, or worse, someone like his mother. He often wondered if anyone had been kind enough or cared for her enough to read poems to her, to show her that she was valued for so much more than her body? Could such a simple action have saved her from a life of becoming whatever a man needed her to be for an evening of pleasure and little else?

When he had a child of his own, he would do better. He would watch over the boy the way his father had never truly deigned to do for him. He would show him how important it was not only to know what was in a book, but to understand what the words really meant and the effect they could have on other people. Love poems were not a bad thing, and he would be certain that his child had an understanding of that; but he could not help the realization that no one had taught him the power of the words in a book, and how important it was to know how those words could change a mood, or a life. This one had certainly changed his, and Isabelle’s.

When d’Artagnan came by, he closed the book and set it amongst his things. The curious Gascon made a move to question him about it. Aramis could only smile, as he related the tale of the poems and their history; how they had shaped his past. D’Artagnan, for his part, fought not to laugh.

“It was a book that got you in trouble?”

“Anything could get a man like ‘Mis in trouble.”

“Oi! That’s enough outta you, Porthos!”

“Shut up, ‘Mis. You love me.”

“You’re lucky I do, or I’d shoot you.”, grumbled Aramis, as Athos and d’Artagnan rolled their eyes. Aramis couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. Maybe that incident with Isabelle had been for the best. After all, it had gotten him here. It had given him a whole new family, one that he knew he could never trade for all the world’s riches. It had also granted him a far greater legacy than any that either of his parents might have left behind. In the end, perhaps there would be a new book; not one of poems, but of his life and his adventures. That would be a legacy worth passing on to his children, if God saw fit to grant him more one day.


End file.
